


All the Lonely Ones

by MinstrelOfMine



Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Angst, Gen, but not with everyone, there is comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:02:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29751042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinstrelOfMine/pseuds/MinstrelOfMine
Summary: In the aftermath of a tragedy, some heal and some don't.-or, snippets of what happens after the last book
Relationships: Kellar Haines & Lizzie Haines, Kellar Haines & Sharon Haines
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	All the Lonely Ones

**Author's Note:**

> greetings! this is my very first work here both in this website and this fandom, so my characterization might be a bit off. this was meant to be a hurt and comfort fic, but my hand slipped and this happened. whoops. anyways, enjoy!
> 
> TW: unhealthy coping mechanisms. nothing explicit, but its there

Moxie types.

A lot has happened, harrowing events itching to be put to paper. And so Moxie does. She types and types. She doesn’t sleep or eat. It’s dark outside, and Moxie can’t tell if it’s early morning or late at night.

She is tired, and her fingers are growing numb. She ignores it and continues to type.

She doesn’t stop. If she stops, Moxie would have to deal with everything she’s been trying to avoid. The loud clicking of the typewriter’s keys is enough to ward off the silence, and Moxie can almost pretend that nothing is wrong.

_Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack!_

The words are blurring together, and Moxie could barely understand the things she’d just typed.

_Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack!_

The repetitive cadence of her fingers typing is pounding at her head. It hurts. The dull pain behind her eyes thump in tandem with the sound and _it hurts_. She ignores it.

_Clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack!_

It hurts, and the numbness spread from her fingers to her arms, then her whole torso. Soon, her whole body is numb, and the only thing she could feel is a blindingly sharp headache and the sting of unwanted memories.

The death of a villain.

The betrayal of a friend.

One is a supposed victory, and one is a terrible tragedy. They swooped in and formed a final catastrophe, and in the aftermath stood the remnants of a friendship once cherished and Moxie’s own weary heart. 

_Clickety-clack!_

The silence swallowed her the instant she stopped typing. Her hands curled into fists, so tight her nails dug deeply on her palm, and closed her eyes. No. No, no, _no._

The mantra repeats in her head. _Stop. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to know_.

She wants to laugh at the bitter irony of it.

Moxie is a journalist. She is supposed to know. A good journalist must always strive for the truth, no matter how difficult it is to accept. A journalist deals with facts.

Facts.

The fact is, her friend murdered a villain.

The fact is, he murdered him even when he didn’t have to. Pushed him into the waiting mouth of a beast, pushed and killed a villain, a man, a father.

The truth, the truth she’s been trying to avoid all this time, is that he left them all. Moxie doesn’t know where he’ll go, or why he left. All she knew is that she’ll never see him again.

Moxie is a journalist, but she is not ready to face the facts just yet.

She will. She has to. It is her job to know things, and to document the facts. 

Moxie wears her title like a cloak. Journalist. It gives her purpose, makes her useful. Because at the end of the day, what is she? A girl too curious for her own good, left with an absent father and a mother that would never return for her. Her own inadequacy rings loudly in her, and she buries herself in the one thing she’s best at in order to avoid it.

Moxie is a journalist, and a good journalist shouldn’t be wallowing and running away from facts just to make things hurt less.

But right now, she allows herself to indulge a bit more. Savor the numbness while it lasted.

Moxie continues to type.  
…

There are some days when Kellar cannot bear to have Lizzie out of his sight.

He tries to give her space, of course. He wants nothing more than to hold her close and never let go, but he doesn’t want to smother her. 

Sometimes, despite having no reason to, Kellar wouldn’t see Lizzie nearby and he panics. It’s unreasonable, he knows. His sister has her own life. She can’t always be around him. But he can’t stop himself from being overly worried every time they’re separated.

There are nights, especially just after the entire disastrous ordeal, when Lizzie would wordlessly creep into his room and climb in his bed beside him. Those nights, they cling to each other tightly in silence.

It is dark, and the room is drafty, but they had each other’s company and that is enough. They don’t mention it in the morning, but it became something of a routine to them. 

There are some moments when Lizzie would stare at the distance and fall silent. Her mind would drift off, as if reminiscing, and she wouldn’t speak for some time.

In these moments, Kellar is reminded more than ever that there are some things about his sister that he’ll never be privy to. There are some things she’ll never tell him, never tell anyone, and that is okay. In these moments, all Kellar could do is reach for her quietly. Hold her gently, as if to anchor her.

Lizzie would always smile at him appreciatively whenever he does. Kellar would smile back, and he would continue to hold on to her even as they start a new conversation.

Warmth begins to trickle back into his life, and he begins to try mending all the broken pathways from the past.

Even after all this time, Kellar still hasn’t learned to fully trust his mother. They would still tiptoe around each other, act as if one wrong move could destroy the peace between them. His mother would still look at him differently, like he would bolt out of the door at any moment. Kellar would still visibly flinch whenever his mother moved a bit too fast with him.

His mother would always look guilty around them. She knows that her children still have misgivings about her, and it’s obvious in the way she tries too hard in reconnecting with them. Kellar wants so badly to reassure her, tell her that it’s not her fault and that she shouldn’t be guilty, but he doesn’t. He knew it would be a lie.

There are times when Kellar would find his mother crying. Perhaps, she was remembering all the things that happened to them. All the things she did in her desperation to bring Lizzie back. He would hear her sob, and it sounds too much like grief. None of them died. His mother shouldn’t be grieving at all. 

None of them died, but none of them walked off unscathed either.

At those times, Kellar would reach for her. He would sit beside her and hold her gently, carefully. His mother would always look surprised whenever he did, but she won’t say anything. They would sit there, quietly wrapped in their thoughts. Those times always felt like a truce. Like a momentary pause before they return to guilty looks and tiptoes.

Kellar knows that they’ll never be the same people they were before. Too much has happened, too many scars and wounds that are not yet healed. But that is okay. The Haines have once been torn apart, but they are now healing together.  
…

Ellington doesn’t know how long she’s been running.

It seemed like forever since she and her mysterious cellmate, who introduced herself as Kit, escaped using a skeleton key. “Special education,” Kit answered when Ellington asked, and she forced herself not to flinch at the words

They’d parted ways eventually. Kit left her with a firm handshake and a resolute nod. “Be careful,” she’d said, “and good luck.”

And then she was alone.

Ellington started to run. Where exactly, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know what she’s doing at all. She started to run, and she forced herself to forget what she’s leaving behind.

Ellington was alone again, just as she was all this time, this time with no purpose to steady her. 

She starts to flounder. What will she do now? For a very long time, her life had been occupied with the disappearance of her father. She’d spent so long working to get him back, so many nights spent dreaming of the day she’ll be with him again. She’s thrown off her orbit, and she’s lost.

Alone. Ellington was alone again.

Ellington, always running with no one left but herself. She feels the loneliness settle deep in her bones, and she feels hollow and untethered. She swears that if she wanted to, she could just drift away.

She doesn’t herself be lonely, though. Ellington is alone now, and she couldn’t be weak. She finds her anger, simmering inside her constantly, and wills it to engulf her. Let it grow into a wildfire and let it consume her.

She _burns_ , and it is so easy to pretend that her rage is bravery.

Ellington clings to her fury like a lifeline. During her lowest moments, she clutches at her wrath and lets it fuel her. 

Sometimes, it’s as if all Ellington has left is her anger. 

More often than she’d care to admit, she finds herself thinking about Snicket. The mysterious boy who asked the wrong questions, taking on missions bigger than himself. The boy who had completely enthralled her like a moth to a flame. The boy who then proceeded to utterly ruin her life in front of her eyes.

Ellington lays there, flightless and burnt, and she wants vengeance. She takes all of her hatred, all her furious resentment, and lets herself burn further. She lost her purpose, but she is alight with anger and that is enough to keep her steady.

Her father was right there in front of her. Her father, to whom she uprooted her entire life for. He was so close. Ellington had found him, and for the first time in ages, she could breathe freely.

But then Snicket murders him, and Ellington is left gasping.

Grief claws at her throat, threatening to spill out of her lungs like dark ink. The death of her father left a gaping hole in her already bruised heart and it’s unfair. Ellington would never admit this to herself, but she’d never felt this small in her life.

Ellington is alone and lonely and scared. She clings tightly to the wildfire and hopes it is enough to stop the trembling of her hands.

**Author's Note:**

> me at dannyhands: stop hurting them !!! they've been through so much already!  
> also me: ahaha angst go brrr
> 
> anyways, comments and kudos would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
